The Painting

The Painting

Mr. Buckley gave the key a twist, locking the shop door for the evening. It was after hours, and from the bookstore window he could see through to the row of picturesque storefronts across the street, their lights now dimmed, retreating into the shadow. He sighed, hooking the key ring to his belt.

He made his way in slow, measured steps to the rear of the room where the warm lamplight illuminated his workbench. It was a bookstore, but where books didn't line the walls, he collected art. A framed painting lay on the table set on brown wrapping paper. Set in a grassy meadow, a boy on bended knee held wildflowers in his hand as a gift to a young girl.

Mr. Buckley smiled glancing up to the wall where the picture had made its home for so many years. Now only a nail protruded and the stain of discolored paint. "We've looked at each other every day for years, my friend. It's about time you get to look at a young, pretty face."

He began folding the paper, his hands trembling. "Remember me saying I went to the doctor?" Well, I didn't get the best news." He paused, reaching for a bit of tape. "I need to get my things in order around here, make sure everyone goes to a good home."

The painting was now wrapped, and he fell silent in awareness of the moment.